Boxing Day
by Estoma
Summary: Relationships and Christmas trees are wilting in the Australian summer. Two part drabbles for Christmas.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: For Amanda.**

The ladder creaks its protest, and the whole tree lurches away from her. Johanna stretches up like she's reaching for something more important than the highest branch. Then, she hurls the star down at the tiles – some kind of deranged angel. On the radio – a little out of tune – Neil Diamond is singing _hark the heralds. _Again and again, she brings her heel down until the star shatters. Johanna sits among the glitter, fallen needles and shards of plastic. There is a parcel labelled with Fallon's rough handwriting. Last year, he put the star on the tree.

"Merry fucking Christmas."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: For Amanda. The mountains mentioned are very much real, and some of my favourite spots to bushwalk. **

The slopes are bare of snow. Brown rock and ridges, grey and silver gums – the Western Tiers. Tall Ironstone presides over the other peaks. Johanna tries to see them as Fallon does. She imagines him, eight years old and trusted to hold his uncle's gun, the landrover fighting its way up the grade. She sees wallabies and foresters caught in the glare of the spotlight. Lightly, she punches his arm. She knows he's planning a trip up Quamby Bluff and she's looking forward to it – Tasmania's summer is cold enough to share one sleeping bag. She smiles.

"Happy Boxing Day."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: For Brooke. **

Trampled grass in the moonlight, broken bottles, glow sticks bleeding out– the detritus left on the Esplanade. The lights on the Christmas tree flash still, though the children have gone home. Their glare reaches as far as the mudflats. By the water there is one more remnant of the celebration. Later, when the paramedics find him, they'll think that Haymitch Abernathy – with his dirty white shirt and unkempt hair – looks liked a debauched saviour. They won't save him; they will only clean up. _Holiday season's always roughest on people like this, _Prim's hardened partner will tell her. _Merry fucking Christmas. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: For Brooke. **

There's a bed and a chair, walls that have seen too much and are stained with it. Neither of them talk; they do not have to. He can read the slump of her shoulders and the way her plait has unravelled to a blonde nimbus. She's coming off an eighteen-hour shift, and she's too tired to go home. Prim doesn't need to see his greying stubble, or his sunken cheeks. Instead, she reads the chart by his bed. So she visits, and he doesn't tell her to go. His voice is hoarse, but it's not all irony.

"Happy Boxing Day."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: For April, because two lovely years of pavlova and PMs. **

Softly shining, it slides into the oven and he whispers under his breath – a quick prayer. Peeta fills the kitchen with nervous energy. On the couch Katniss stretches, sweat beading on her skin, her pants discarded on the floor. Peeta makes meringues while summer's humid breath hangs over Brisbane. And one by one they lose their gloss. As the humidity ruins the last meringue, he sinks down by the oven. His last attempt, hard and flat, breaks over his knee and he crushes it to powder. Katniss watches, scowling – she always hated wasting food. He looks up.

"Merry fucking Christmas."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: For April. **

It's dark in the kitchen, but she gently repairs what Peeta smashed. She whips cream to a sheen and plants raspberries like gems. The seeds of a passionfruit she sprinkles, glowing soft in the light from the hallway. Katniss brings only one spoon. Brisbane wilts – no gift of a cool change for Christmas – while Katniss makes Eton Mess and smiles. It's late now, but too hot to sleep. In the last few minutes before midnight she offers him a taste. As Christmas night dies, Peeta licks cream from Katniss' lips and feels the shape of her words.

"Happy Boxing Day."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: For Iris.**

It dangles from her hand, like a jellyfish left to dry on the sand. She holds the G-string as if it is a dead thing. The air is the kind of hot that makes tempers as jagged as shattered glass. In the silence between them, her words hang. _I told you I'm not ready for this. _Finnick says nothing. He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. She flings the panties away but they end up hooked on his thumb. Annie's voice is hysterical; she's frightened, but aroused by the black lace against his skin.

"Merry fucking Christmas!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: For Iris.**

Sunset lends a gentle glow to the cove. The rough, ruse-orange rocks of the headland are softened, and even the buoys of the shark-net are no longer ugly. Finnick thinks that on a night like this, even the stinging blue bottles would look like gems in the water. And it's achingly clear all the way to the bottom. Further out, the waves are tinted dusky pink but Finnick can see their toes in the sand. If sunset gentles the headlands, it brings Annie soft to his arms. His apology is echoed as the waves kiss the shore.

"Happy Boxing Day."


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: For Amanda, because beer :) **

They topped the Christmas tree with a can of VB. It was a joke, now twelve days sour. The heatwave has stretched on – nearly a week above thirty-five – and the tree's wilting. It is shedding leaves like rain. Bare branches start to show, and the tepid water at the base is writhing with mosquito larvae. Now the green VB can sits there like a reminder, or a strident challenge. On Christmas Day, Cato cracks open the can. It's nearly blood-warm. When he hurls it through the window Clove is not there to sweep up the shattered glass.

"Merry fucking Christmas."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: For Amanda.**

The window is still broken and the Christmas tree is dead. She sits down on the couch, slapping a six-pack between them. He loves the way she opens her corona on the table top. The heatwave breaks, then, with a violent clash of thunder that shakes the last shards of glass from the frame. Melbourne breathes out and drinks it in. Cato watches raindrops blow through the window. The carpet is getting wet but he doesn't move. Clove cracks another beer and smiles like she pulled the storm out of her brown paper bag, just for him.

"Happy Boxing Day."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: For Voodoogator.**

The sun has set hours ago but the sky is alight. This year, the dragon has woken early and it is ravenous, ready to swallow homes, trees – flesh. And through it all, Gale drives. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel while the clouds glow red and the smoke is as dark as the night should be. In it, embers shine like eyes. The three children huddle under a blanket but the front seat is empty. Gale looks to it often. It is midnight and he is racing the bushfire. His voice is rough from smoke.

"Merry fucking Christmas."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note: For Voodoogator.**

Time has been lost in the smoke and the flurry of ash riding on the wind. The children sleep, blankets on the floor of the school hall. Two towns over, they lie beside peers and strangers while Kinglake burns. Gale stays up as Christmas Day fades. With his eyes on the door he waits. It is somewhere in the stale hours of the morning when Hazelle Hawthorne arrives. Gale wakes his brothers and sister, laughing because this is better than the presents in the house that they left to the raging bushfire. Hazelle can only cry softly.

"Happy Boxing Day."


End file.
